


paper faces on parade

by kiaronna



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dancing, Fluff, Identity Reveal, M/M, Mask instead of masque because come on, Mutual Pining, Prince Katsuki Yuuri, Prince Victor Nikiforov, YOI Royalty Week, they're not actually princes but work with me, yoiroyaltyweek2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-13
Packaged: 2019-05-06 09:38:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14639135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiaronna/pseuds/kiaronna
Summary: Lord Katsuki Yuuri has taken apart his extravagant mask to feed his people, but now that it's time for the traditional royal Masquerade, he has to go to the palace, extravagant mask or no.He just didn't expect to be asked to dance by so many tall, broad shouldered men, each with a different mask on.





	paper faces on parade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yuena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuena/gifts).



> For royalty week! And for Nica (Nicaforov on Tumblr), because I swear I've been intending to write you Royalty! fanfic for a while  
> I will hopefully explain well enough what a Masquerade is, in this universe.

 

Yuuri is out in the fields when the messenger arrives, mud caked on his breeches.

“Boy,” says the messenger, his retinue halting on the road that leads up to Yuuri’s manse, “take me to your lord.”

“You’ve found him,” Yuuri sighs, pulling himself from the water. It’s then that he notices the messenger’s garb, the crest high on his cap. “You bring news from the palace?”

The messenger, for some reason, has gone pale. “Y-yes, m’lord. The Masquerade has been moved up; it’s no longer on the summer solstice.”

He’s traveled miles for nothing, then, because Yuuri has no plans to go. Bringing shame onto his family name would be enough to deter him, and with the only reward being forced to flirt and make small talk with the rest of the nobility, there’s nothing appealing about the Masquerade.

At least it’s not news of war. Yuuri is done with war.

The messenger is told none of this.

“You’ve traveled far,” Yuuri says, “we’ll prepare lodging for you and your men.” If he doesn’t extend Hasetsu’s famous hospitality, Lady Minako will never let him hear the end of it.

“The king,” the messenger says, as Yuuri swings up onto his horse—not Vicchan, not anymore, just his sister’s old gelding— and waves a farewell to the farmer who owns the field, “is insistent on the attendance of all nobility. Even the most reclusive, m’lord.”

Yuuri has been vigorously schooled on wordplay since he first began to toddle around his family’s estate. He knows what this means.

Perhaps the king hadn’t found what he was looking for, at the last Masquerade. It was already absurd, for him to have a second one, when tradition dictated he was to find his betrothed by the one last winter solstice. The king is getting older, and the kingdom needs a second ruler.

Well, Yuuri has already disappointed everyone in his region—bad crop yields, struggling markets, men that never came home from war even when Yuuri himself did—he may as well disappoint his king, too.

Still, he puts off a solid _yes_ until his lady mother greets them at the great oaken doors to his home, smiling.

 _My son would be delighted to attend,_ she does not say, because his mother knows him too dearly to be able to honestly say that. “My son would be honored to attend,” she accepts gracefully instead, “and pay respects to the king he so admires.”

Sometimes, Yuuri wishes his mother did not know him so well.

When the messenger takes his leave in the morning, disappearing off into the sunrise, Yuuri puts his face in his hands. He’s been avoiding this.

“The Katsuki family Mask,” he muffles into his calloused palms, “I dismantled it.”

It had been dotted with sapphires, opals, pearls from his kingdom’s coast, snow-white feathers of cranes not seen in half a century. His mother had worn it, when she attended her last Masquerade; her father had worn it before her; and her mother’s father’s mother before that. It had been maintained—polished, added to, made more glamorous and ornamental—since their kingdom’s birth.

It was a status symbol, a representation of the prosperity of Yuuri’s fiefdom. A way to attract other nobility at Masquerades, and advertise the suitability of him as a match.

But what was the use of a status symbol, left to gather dust for half the year, when his people were hungry?

Yuuri was no lord at all, much less the great lord he wanted to be, if he did nothing.

He’d pried off the sapphires, the opals, the pearls, every precious piece, and sold them until there was enough gold in his fiefdom’s coffers to fill their food storage. All that remains is the navy satin base, the intricate needlework that follows its edge as it curves over his cheekbones.

“I know what you’ve done,” his mother says, too gentle, and Yuuri bows his head in shame. “Shall I have the cook prepare katsudon for dinner, tonight?”

“The castle messenger is gone,” Yuuri protests, weakly, peering out from his hands.

“Ah,” she pulls his fingers back one by one, to rest a hand on his cheek, “then I’ll make the katsudon myself.”

* * *

 

“I’m off,” he says, mere weeks later, hands shaking. “Mother. Please don’t expect…”

“Don’t be ashamed,” she tells him, both loving and fierce. “A ruler who doesn’t understand sacrifice is no ruler at all.”

* * *

 

Yuuri had long believed that the winter solstice Masquerade was the most extravagance he would ever experience in his life, even though it'd been right at the end of wartime.

This Masquerade proves him wrong.

He rides in, accompanied only by his one servant, Minami, and his knights, Takeshi and Yuuko. Before they’ve even come within shouting distance of the castle, there are massive floral arches constructed over the roads—green carnations sprinkled with hyacinths and forget-me-nots. A blue rose arch, draped in golden strands, looms proudly at the end of the line of carriages and the bridge over the moat.

 _Even the moat teems with petals_ , Yuuri thinks to himself as he leans over his horse’s shoulder, hooves clopping on the wood and steel of the drawbridge.

As tradition dictates, he already has his mask donned, his finest clothes fastened around his shoulders and waist.

He can see the curtains of carriages pulling back as they roll past him and his retinue—gods, he should’ve brought his own carriage, what was he thinking—and at least one shocked face.

With a mask like this, he barely passes as nobility.

As Yuuko and Takeshi dismount and make his greetings for him, one of the royal planners handing them keys for his bedchambers and taking their horses for stabling, Yuuri looks up, away from the extravagance. The sky is simple blue, white clouds wafting across.

This Masquerade is not his betrothal ceremony. He is not the king, and the king will hardly spare him a glance, among the diamonds and gold of the rest of the nobility.

All Yuuri has to do is dance, and make it through these next few days without offending someone important. There’s no pressure.

Setting his shoulders back, his head high, he strides forward into the palace of their king, Viktor Nikiforov.

* * *

 

The level of extravagance isn’t the only thing that has changed, at this Masquerade.

Their king has a golden mask, so massive that it eclipses the entirety of his face, his neck, his hair. Diamonds and golden protrusions, which would seem gaudy on any other mask, only add to its delicate glory. Every kind of precious gem encircles it, rubies and emeralds and shimmering amethyst.

The mask has not changed from the last Masquerade; only the proximity of it.

Their king, contrary to tradition, will not be dancing. As soon as he whispers in an advisor’s ear, and the dark-haired man gives a greeting to the whole of the ballroom, he goes to sit in his throne. A line of diamond-encrusted soldiers stands between the Masquerade and him, and it seems nothing will breach it.

No one has seen his face since he was a boy. Since he ascended to the throne, nearly 10 years ago.

Yuuri had seen him then, on the many occasions where his parents visited the palace for business. He’d attended classes with Viktor, watched him wield a sword. Seen him ride his favorite mare on hunts, long silver hair flowing in the wind.

Bright blue eyes, and a face with so much life.

Yuuri is _not_ in love with his king. No. No matter how much he’s analyzed Viktor’s war tactics, his political treatises, his financial management—even his love letters to an unknown man or woman, made public five years ago.

They’d been poetry. Yuuri reads them, every night, before he goes to sleep. Sometimes Yuuri wishes Viktor were not a king, just a poet, so he could have more of Viktor’s heart and his words.

Even as he warms up and dances with a red-haired woman he met the last Masquerade, her black mask and the strength of her arms giving her away, his thoughts are far away. He bows to her, low, knowing he won’t see her again for the remainder of the night.

Only one dance is allowed, with a masked stranger, lest they figure out who you are beneath it. To ask for more would be to ask for identity, commitment. Even when most of the nobility knows who the others are, they like to play pretend.

The side of the room is where Yuuri belongs. He’s scanning the crowd for Phichit, the telltale red and gold of his best friend’s mask, when his eyes light upon the throne again.

Yuuri is too busy staring longingly, like he could see the king beneath the mask, to notice the man coming up at his shoulder.

It’s another member of nobility, his mask accompanied by a shining veil over his hair.

Yuuri assumes the man wants him out of the way. After all, his mask is breathtaking—gold and platinum, punctuated with blue and pink diamonds.

Nobility like that wouldn’t be interested in Yuuri’s plain blue satin.

But when Yuuri moves to step away, the man falls into step with him, holds out one hand. What he wants is clear.

Dancing is the best part of these Masquerades, the only part that gives Yuuri any kind of comfort. So he dances. It’s a waltz, simple and formal, until Yuuri tires of it and spins the man into more complex patterns, testing.

The lord in diamonds matches him, step for step.

He can _dance_. Perhaps Yuuri will enjoy a part of the Masquerade, after all.

He regrets it, he does, when the strings and wind instruments of the live band stop singing, the harp resounding on its last chord. One dance doesn’t seem like enough. But the social rules are clear.

Yuuri bows low, heart stuttering in his chest, and walks away from the dance floor.

 

* * *

 

Lord Chulanont is, of course, on the upper balcony. Yuuri should have expected nothing less. He bounds up the stairs, painted with shining strips of silver, to his friend. The other man is peering contemplatively out below at the swirling petticoats and coattails, the colorful assortment of the buffet and decorations strewn about the palace room.

“What a scene,” he greets. “If I only knew a painter, I’d hire them to depict this.”

“If only,” Phichit greets him right back, grinning. Were he not already from a particularly prosperous fiefdom, he could make enough gold for his mask just by selling his art. Unfortunately, no matter how blessed his fiefdom is, they're too far apart to transport food and goods to Yuuri's without them spoiling. “Hello, stranger.” He squeezes Yuuri’s shoulder, sharp eyes going soft. “Speaking of strangers—I didn’t recognize the masked noble you were just dancing with. A friend of yours?”

Yuuri blinks. “The man with the diamonds? No, we’ve never met. Perhaps he’s from one of the kingdoms in the far west.” They have different rules, in the western kingdoms. Perhaps the man didn’t understand the embarrassment of a plain mask.

“Well,” Phichit says, shrugging, “he’s gone now.”

Yuuri knows. He’s been looking.

“Care for a round with this stranger?”

 

* * *

 

Yuuri hasn’t gotten his breath back, from dancing with Phichit and laughing, laughing, too hard for social etiquette—not before a noble with a scandalously thin mask takes his arm.

This is not the kind of man who is used to ‘no,’ Yuuri imagines, merely because no one would ever _want_ to say no. His garb is thinner than his mask, nearly sheer in certain places, an enticing black. This is the kind of man Minako would tell Yuuri to never take a walk in the garden with, lest he lose his virtue in the grass.

The mask is lined with volcanic rock, and black onyx and agate. Their expensive luster is swallowing Yuuri whole, but Yuuri hasn’t come this far with no love affairs for nothing. He pushes the noble into starting position, and starts a tango. His dark grey gloves are butter velvet against Yuuri’s fingers, his body melts in Yuuri’s hands, and by the time they’ve spun into a final twist, there are numerous eyes on them.

The man leans in, his arm still on Yuuri’s elbow, after the dance. He cares nothing for etiquette. _Too close._

Yuuri flees to the buffet table.

The man in black disappears into the crowd, or perhaps off to the gardens, where he’s bound to seduce some young noble that isn’t as uptight or terrified as Yuuri.

Yuuri gulps down wine, and desperately looks around for Phichit. Traitorously, he’s busy, wrapped up in the arms of some emerald-encrusted noble with a coattail that is much too short to cover his tight-fitting dress pants.

Yuuri needs more comrades, and less of this delectable cake he’s on his third piece of.

He drops the cake, dooming a poor servant, when he sees a noble with pointe shoes move to the center of the floor, and extend a graceful hand to Phichit’s dancing partner.

Every motion, every breath, makes it clear that this is the most talented dancer on the floor. Ballet-inspired social dances haven’t been popular since the reign of the king’s grandfather—they were too difficult to master for all the nobility—but here he is.

The man’s mask doesn’t indicate any particular type of wealth—it’s rare metallic feathers and teardrop pearls, extensive embroidery with golden string that only the best craftsman or woman could have created, over years of their life.

Yuuri has spent years being attracted, most prominently, to a man he could never have. What are the odds of _three men_ , their bodies and motions tailored so precisely to his tastes, appearing at one ball? Clearly he’s going mad. Perhaps his adviser’s insistence that he begin to court someone was wise.

At least this noble isn’t dancing with—

The emerald noble moves away, and then it’s just the embroidered mask. Beneath the shadow of his cover, there is no question who he’s looking to.

Yuuri puts down his fork.

He can’t embarrass Lady Minako, not when he’s already shamed her and her generosity so thoroughly. Yuuri rocks onto the balls of his feet—yes. These are his dancing shoes. He can do it.

If the embroidered noble is surprised to have Yuuri jeté and then fouette up to his outstretched hand, it doesn’t interrupt the flow of their dance together.

When it’s done, Yuuri’s whole body vibrating with music and excitement, he needs air.

“Wait,” the embroidered noble gasps. His voice is soft, accented with the thick tinge of the capital. He’s likely from the king’s own personal court. So it makes no sense, for him to stride behind Yuuri, to follow him out to the balcony. Yuuri adores it, the drop into the quiet, the view of the king’s gardens. For the first time since he entered the Masquerade, he feels unrestrained, breathing in the uncharacteristically cool air. “Sir, have I offended you?”

Yuuri has to laugh, disbelieving. The Masquerade is almost halfway over; he’s danced and had more fun than he believed possible. “Certainly not. Why would you think that?”

“Most wouldn’t abandon their dance partner the moment the song ends,” the noble protests, soft. Yuuri feels himself flushing beneath the bridge of his mask.

“My apologies. I’m a better dancer than a conversationalist. Besides, I…” Sheepishly, he gestures to his bare mask. “I can hardly be here to advertise myself as a suitable partner. I assume I’m a pleasant way to spend time, or inspire a small amount of jealousy.”

With the blushing and a sweat breaking out, now that he’s stopped moving, it’s too hot beneath his mask. With one hand he reaches back to loosen the velvet strap. Immediately, the embroidered noble dashes forward, catching his elbow.

“Lord!”

Yuuri knows the rules with this, too. A noble who removes their mask before the end of the night forfeits their eligibility until the next Masquerade.

Yuuri hadn’t thought this would matter—after all, he and the embroidered noble had nothing to lose. Yuuri wasn’t intending to get any bids for his hand, or send any out.

“Ah,” Yuuri realizes, tightening the strap instead, remembering the man’s preference for old dances, “you’re a traditionalist. My apologies. I didn’t mean to upset you, or trivialize the rules-“

“I care very little for rules,” the noble interrupts curtly. Then, as though he’s startled by his own outburst, he steps back, releasing Yuuri. Quietly he adds, “please. Keep your eligibility intact.”

Yuuri wishes the man were not so invested both in keeping Yuuri’s mask on, and forcing his face to heat.

“Do you genuinely think someone wants to offer for me? _Now_?”

Yuuri had envisioned his land’s prosperity coming back three, maybe four years down the line. He’s invested heavily in it; irrigation and storage houses and seeds for crops that will last, buildings that could house tourists. This is what the rest of his mask had gone toward, after food; this is what was worth sacrificing everything. Security for his people. Rebuilding in the shadow of the war.

The man’s pink mouth is opening, one hand coming up, “I—“

Trumpets sound, their joyful noises shaking the balcony. The ball is halfway over; it’s time for the king’s midway speech.

“I must go,” says the embroidered noble. With as much grace as he entered Yuuri’s line of vision, out on the dancefloor, he moves off into the night.

Yuuri is sad to see him go—though they hadn’t talked much, he’d seemed… kind. But kind or not, Yuuri is eager for the king to address everyone. Perhaps he’ll even announce the lucky noble that he’s chosen, pointing to a glorious mask out in the crowd. Yuuri and Phichit had spent the early part of the winter solstice Masquerade looking among the masks, pointing out the ones they thought might attract the king’s wandering eyes. Yuuri had looked and laughed with Phichit, until his heart hurt, because he…

It doesn’t matter. It can’t matter.

The king, in the mask that covers nearly all of him, gleaming powerfully gold, does not speak. He stares out over the crowd, the blue eyes that Yuuri remembers hidden away.

His King Father ends up making the speech, standing beside Viktor and reading out greetings and platitudes with all the somber seriousness His Majesty Yakov was known for.

It’s been so long since Yuuri heard Viktor’s voice. He doesn’t want to forget it. Maybe he already has.

The night goes on.

* * *

 

There are a variety of men in masks, each one progressively plainer and more modest, that Yuuri dances with. One man only has a spray of white feathers and sparkling sea sand; but the last man.

The last man, Yuuri realizes, is of the same height and build as the last three men he dances with. It’s been harder to tell, with the more elaborate masks, the variety of dances, the different shoe heights.

Despite their increasingly modest garb, they are all impeccable dancers. They speak more, each time, with an increasingly thick accent that hints more and more of the winter highlands, where the King holds his court.

Unless three triplets are intent on tricking him—which Yuuri is all too used to— this is the same man. His touch is gentle, his blue eyes are bright, and the last mask hides very little at all.

It’s a soft, touchable pink that fades into a darker ombre at the bottom. A half-face mask. There are no embellishments, just enough embroidery to make it intricate. When Yuuri spins him, catches him in a hold, he laughs so openly and so tenderly that Yuuri can’t help himself. He makes Yuuri laugh, too, whispering things in his ear as they move away from the dance floor. His hands are bare and his fingers curl in Yuuri’s own.

Yuuri may be a fool, but he thinks he can figure out what it means when a man is willing to bring three masks, just so he can flaunt the rules and dance with Yuuri three times.

His stomach is rolling, his heart fluttering, when he pulls the noble out into the garden. They stumble together, in the gentle light of the moon, Yuuri dragging him through the hedge maze to what he knows is a gazebo. This had been his favorite spot, when he was a child visiting the castle. It had often been stolen, though, by couples doing exactly what Yuuri is intending to do.

He sits the noble down on the white marble bench, pushes his halfmask up by an inch, just enough to see his partner’s pink lips more clearly, and whispers: “Shall we dance?”

Fingers are in his hair, a warm tongue in his mouth, and Yuuri tries to give back as good as he gets. He pushes back the purple veil of the pink ombre mask, gets a handful of soft, short moonlight.

In this darkness, in the starlight, what must be blonde looks almost silver.

When it slows, the noble rocking Yuuri’s head on his shoulder, both of them curled on the bench, Yuuri has to know.

“What’s your name?”

Even if the other noble doesn’t want to marry him, even if he can’t afford to marry Yuuri, they can at least be this intimate.

But the noble hesitates.

“I’m Yuuri,” Yuuri blurts desperately, lurching up to face him, feeling the magic of their three dances and their kiss beginning to slip from his fingers. “The, uhm, Katsuki family. Despite the mask, we are actually nobility. I promise.”

He chuckles. His hand is in Yuuri’s own, now. Yuuri has small comforts. “I know who you are. That kind of footwork, anyone should recognize one of the great heroes of the last war.”

Yuuri flinches, instinctively. Hero is the wrong word. Heroes save people. Yuuri can’t even save himself.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Yuuri breathes, and then buries his face back in his partner’s shoulder.

“Besides,” the man says then, “you made quite the stir at the last Masquerade.”

Yuuri groans. Even covered in pearls and sapphires, his mask still intact before the brunt of winter hit, he _had_ rejected a dance with the king.

The king had been dancing, at the last Masquerade, nothing like his still silence on the throne this Masquerade. Yuuri had backed away from him, all that shine, had imagined that maybe his golden-gloved hand was reaching out to someone else. After that Yuuri had—he had—

Yuuri… honestly doesn’t remember.

“I should have given him a formal apology,” Yuuri whispers. “It’s a miracle he didn’t demand my head.”

“I imagine he was too busy thinking about demanding your hand.”

Yuuri’s _hand_? Did the king only like men who rejected him and then disappeared off into the night, probably drunk and passed out in the bushes? Perhaps the nobles of his inner court are privy to these things.

Yuuri squeezes the hand entwined with his. “It doesn’t matter now. He has his choice of all the beautiful masks in there, and we have each other.”

“You’d choose me over a king?”

“I may not be able to see your face,” Yuuri teases, and presses a finger to his heart, “but I like the looks of you. The way you move. The way you brought _three masks_ just to have a few more dances with me.”

“Three!” Even when he laughs at Yuuri, he’s so beautiful. “Three, gods, you think it’s only three…”

He still hasn’t told Yuuri his name.

 _That’s fine,_ Yuuri tells himself, though it’s not. He doesn’t want nameless kisses and affairs in the garden. He wants to bring this noble home. Back to…

Back to Hasetsu, still frail and in recovery.

He should’ve known, when he brought in this mask, not to get too greedy.

Yuuri kisses him again, that laughter summer-sweet on his lips, pushes him back on the marble bench. This dancing is just as easy, trading breath and clutching desperately at the folds of clothing. Behind him Yuuri can hear fireworks, can see colors splashing over the white of the gazebo floor.

There are blue roses, climbing up the bench’s intricately carved side. When the pink mask slides off, its veil catches on their thorns.

The mask.

Yuuri breaks away and fumbles up, reaching for it past his partner’s shoulder, but there are legs wrapped around his waist and he’s jerked back, to an breathless and pleading “Yuuri—“

His face. He knows that _face—_

“I’m sorry!” Yuuri gasps, clamping a hand over his own mask, his eyes. “You—“

_He knows that face._

“Why are you… oh.” His voice has gone dull. “Oh.”

“Viktor,” Yuuri says, and when he opens his eyes, the king is laid out beneath him. His silver hair is splayed out over the marble, and when Yuuri pulls back Viktor closes his legs and sits up with a shaky resolution. “Viktor—no, I mean, my lord—no, my _king_ , your Majesty—I. I.” He takes in a shaking breath. “I’ll get your mask.”

“I don’t want it,” Viktor says once, quietly, and then with rising fierceness, “I _don’t want it._ ”

It’s still caught, in the blue roses, and Yuuri forces himself not to reach out.

“Okay. I won’t tell anyone. I—we can pretend I never saw this.” Yuuri swallows. Unlike the rest of the nobles, Viktor’s face is _never_ to be seen. Not until… “You don’t have to marry me.”

A glare is a thousand times worse when there’s no mask to cover it. But Viktor backs off too quickly, once he seems to realize that there’s nothing, nothing at all, between him and Yuuri. It must be strange, to be so vulnerable after so many years.

“Who decided that asking for someone’s hand based off diamonds and gold and… and _peacock feathers_ was ever the right thing to do?”

Something is shining in the corner of his eye. If Yuuri was useless before, he’s just become catastrophic.

“Well,” Yuuri says dumbly, before his panicking mind can do much else, “your direct ancestors?” Viktor is just staring at him, mouth open. “Remember, they taught us about the Masquerade’s origins every year, in our classes at the castle, and one time you tried to add Makkachin to your official family tree tapestry on the wall and Her Majesty Lilia looked like she was going to…” He trails off, fingers twisting in front of him.

“I’d forgotten,” Viktor mutters, when it’s evident that Yuuri is not going to say anything more. “But… you didn’t, Yuuri?”

Viktor is maskless, and he’s Yuuri’s king, but he also for some reason decided to dance with Yuuri three times and then kiss him, with tongue, in the garden.

It seems right, when Yuuri says, “I was just a little bit in love with you.” This is ridiculous. Yuuri pulls off the satin ribbon, his plain mask clattering at his feet. “I,” he nearly bites his tongue, “have been ardently in love with your work ever since. And still a little bit in love with you.”

Viktor has a hand over his mouth. Yuuri really, really hopes he’s not going to call for his guards. Instead he breathes, disbelieving:

“You were in love first?”

By the time Yuuri’s done kissing and holding him, the marble bench is warm with their body heat.

* * *

 

King Nikiforov’s courting of Lord Katsuki lasts for a record-shatteringly short four months, and then they’re engaged for real. 

* * *

 

His Royal Highness, Kingfather Yakov, does not look pleased. There is a lengthy piece of parchment on the table in front of him. Viktor sighs, for the fifth time, but his bare face is still smiling.

“Here we are,” says Yakov, “the rules for the Masquerade. 1. No noble shall show their face until the ending of the Masquerade, lest they forfeit their eligibility to marry that season. 2. All nobles shall wear a mask befitting of their station. 3. Each noble shall only dance with another mask one time. Shall I go on?”

“No need,” Viktor replies, cheerful.

“You have broken all 3 of the rules, _both_ of you. Viktor, I can’t believe you thought it wise to tell me this after you were engaged.”

“I adhered to number two,” Yuuri whispers, but luckily Yakov doesn’t hear him, and Viktor just sighs again.

“Also note that none of these rules state: ‘the king shall remove his mask and go dally with his favorite noble in the gardens.’”

“Honestly,” Viktor says, “there are nearly a thousand rules. That could easily be one of them. And, though we may not have stayed true to the spirit of the Masquerade, we obeyed the rules. It was over before either of our masks came off.”

“Oh?”

“I could see the fireworks signaling the end,” Viktor presses on shamelessly, “from where I was laying on my back in the gazebo—“

“I’m done with this conversation,” Yakov says, and rolls up the parchment. “So help me, Viktor, if your wedding is this disastrous I am leaving the country.”

“We love you too, Yakov.”

Then they’re alone.

“Three questions,” says Yuuri.

“The wedding—“ Viktor begins, but Yuuri shakes his head.

“I’m not confused about that. If you were with me for three dances—“

“All night, Yuuri!” Viktor protests. “I danced with no one else!”

Yuuri is shivering, still, just thinking about it. “Then who was wearing your king’s mask?”

“Hmm? Georgi, of course. We switched after he gave the opening announcements. As soon as I saw you in the room.”

"Next question," Yuuri says, and at this he blushes, "who were your love letters to, five years ago?"

Viktor shows no embarrassment, but he looks at his hands. "Will you think it strange," he says, "if they were to no one at all? If they were me, calling out to my lover-- to you, in the future?"

Yuuri does not think it strange. "I'll forgive you," he promises, "if you write me more poetry. I adore your poetry."

"Darling!"

“Third question,” Yuuri continues, satisfied.

“The wedding—“

“Viktor,” Yuuri says, taking his hand and kissing it, “I have no questions about our wedding. As long as it happens as soon as possible, so I can have you, I don’t care what it’s like. So, third question. When we hold the next Masquerade, may I have all your dances?”

When they dance, that winter solstice, there are two thrones at the front of the room. Viktor and Yuuri’s faces are bare, and on the thrones hang two masks: golden and bare blue.

**Author's Note:**

> I know Viktor probably would've helped Yuuri out with his people, but let's just say the war had them all distracted a little, and recovery efforts went to some other regions first (very few other nobles were gonna take apart their status symbol as anything but a last resort).


End file.
